A BO BOSON ADVENTURE
The
Wolf Lake
Murders
Henri Jenkins
The Wolf Lake Murders
© 2018 Henri Jenkins
All Rights Reserved
Thank you for purchasing this title from amazon.com. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.
If purchased or downloaded from any other provider, you are in possession of stolen property.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means including, but not limited to, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise without the express written consent of the author. Requests for consent may be made to [email protected].
This book is a work of fiction. The names, places, events, or other references are from the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner.
CROWN MANOR
Meditate | Motivate | Move
8777
Published in the U.S.A.
Cover produced on canva.com
With Appreciation
The James Patterson Teaches Writing online course students and associated Facebook group.
The folks at masterclass.com, and Brad Dixon in particular for hosting / providing the course.
Author James Patterson for sharing his knowledge and being an inspiration.
Those who support my endeavor.
About The Author
Having taken up writing in my fifties, I guess you could describe me as a late bloomer baby boomer. Beyond that. WYRIWYG - What you read is what you get. No, no, no, you can't bloody well tell the nice people that load of horseshit now can you? Why can't I? They don't know me. Well they don't know me either but I'll tell you one thing, they're more likely to believe me than you. Okay, fine you tell them who I am then. Um. Um. You eating ice cream? No! Then get on with it. Fine. Fine. Fine. The author is the gentleman who wrote this lovely book. You think my book about murderers, victims, and detectives is lovely? I called you a gentleman, you'd think you be happy to hear that but no you've got to question me about lovely. You didn't answer the question. And I'm of a good mind to not if you keep going on about it because I could leave you here all by your lonesome. I think that would be lovely. I can't work with this lunatic. I'm out of here. Rock On!
If you care to know me beyond my words:
Follow me on Amazon or Facebook.
Read kind, this tender child of mine.
Introduction
On Wednesday, May 21, 1924, the lives of three Chicago teenagers ended in a rented automobile. Wealthy, intelligent, and capable, Nathan Leopold (19) and Richard Loeb (18) chose to kidnap and murder.
Somewhere between the Harvard School for Boys and his south side Kenwood home, they lured Robert "Bobby" Franks (14) into the car. Their eventual confessions provided the guise of a conversation about tennis rackets. Having played together on the Loeb family court, it proved an effective enticement. Bobby made the grave mistake of getting in.
Fluent in five languages, Nathan Leopold held an undergraduate degree from the University of Chicago. After travels through Europe, he had aspirations of attending Harvard Law. A student of German Philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche, Nathan believed himself an Ubermensch. A "superman" capable of eclipsing the abilities and responsibilities of the average man.
Nathan convinced his schoolmate Richard Loeb of possessing similar talent. Equal in qualification, Richard had skipped several lower grade levels. He graduated from the University of Michigan at seventeen. Their shared interests spawned the idea of committing, "the perfect crime."
History remains conflicted on who drove that fateful afternoon. What is certain is one, sitting behind Bobby, struck him in the head with a chisel purchased for the task. The killer dragged Bobby into the backseat. He gagged and beat the boy until dead. In his first funeral procession, Bobby lay on the rear floorboard as they drove 25 miles to Wolf Lake in Indiana.
After sunset, the boys stripped Bobby naked and poured acid on his face, stomach and genitals. They left him in a railroad culvert along the northern edge of the lake. Returning home, the news of Bobby missing was already circulating. Leopold phoned the Franks house. Providing the name George Johnson, he informed Mrs. Franks of the kidnapping. They mailed a ransom note created on a stolen typewriter. They later cleaned the blood from the car, burned the clothes and played cards.
The following morning, Leopold phoned again and provided the initial set of instructions. A family member who took the call failed to remember the address provided. The directions did not matter after a man named Tony Minke discovered the body and contacted police. The ruse was up.
An investigation began and the family offered a reward for information. Richard Loeb destroyed and dumped the typewriter. Content with their successful murder, the boys returned to normal life.
The affluence of the Franks family created a media frenzy. While Loeb avoided inclusion, Leopold sought it out. He would provide his thoughts to anyone and everyone who would listen. One detective later stated Leopold had bragged Bobby would be just the person he would kill.
After seven months of planning, Leopold failed to foresee their demise in his prescription glasses. Discovered at the crime scene and one of only three such pair in Chicago, Nathan could not account for his.
On May 29th the police summoned the boys for formal questioning. Each provided a false alibi about having been in Leopold's car with a pair of girls the evening of the murder. In testifying he was repairing the car at the time, the Leopold family chauffeur dismantled their statements. Confessions ensued.
Richard Loeb caved first. He placed himself behind the wheel and Leopold's hand on the murder weapon. Leopold then provided a similar confession with the roles reversed. An eyewitness placed Loeb as driving minutes before the abduction. Neither willing to recant, the mystery remained. The police arrested the pair for the murder of Bobby Franks. The people of Chicago found the revelation shocking and amusing.
The families hired prominent attorney Clarence Darrow to mount a defense. After reviewing the evidence, Darrow suggested a guilty plea. In doing so, he hoped to avoid the death penalty. The sentencing hearing took thirty-two days. More than one-hundred state and defense witnesses provided testimony.
In his closing argument, Darrow delivered a twelve-hour dissertation against the death penalty. Each received a sentence of life plus ninety-nine years. The men began their incarceration south of Chicago at Joliet Prison. At some point the state transferred the pair to Stateville Penitentiary.
Inside, their external wealth proved a blessing and a curse. The families provided tidy sums for use at the penitentiary store. Their veritable fortunes made them vulnerable to protection schemes. The bounty later limited to $5 per week, they became targets of disbelieving cellmates.
On January 28, 1936, an inmate sliced Richard Loeb over fifty times with a razor blade. He later died from the injuries.
The state granted Nathan Leopold parole in March 1958. He moved to Puerto Rico, where he led a successful but quiet life until his death on August 29, 1971.
The modern fascination with criminals only serves to kill the victims time and time again.
Arrogance kills the wicked.
I was never more jealous.
As if a child clinging to a parent’s leg, I peeked around the trunk of a broad maple. Watching, useless along the rim of a crowded clearing, Walter knew I was there standing among the trees. If still and quiet, I could remain.
The heady woods hinted of the coming fall as he enjoyed himself without regard or regret. I respected his confidence.
Dark, sweat-filled clumps of hair hung from his faded gray newsboy cap. It drenched the plain cotton wife-beater tank. Dungarees and striped boxers hugged muddied leather boots. They choked ankles, paper white and sparse with hair. Walter appeared to be a depression era migrant teleported to 1982.
I considered it a costume, a ruse. When I had asked him, he described it as part of the process. He would not explain further.
I did not push for anything more.
The slapping of his repetition jingled in the shotgun strap draping his chest, like a pageant sash declaring him the victor. It reminded me cheap coins tossed into a coffee can. Seeming ever eager, his long, thick fingers dug into his lover’s wide hips. Weary of interruption, my excited eyes scanned the area but were quick to return.
Walter became lost in a rhythm. My own stimulation followed suit. Oohs, aahs, and filthy lines imitating a cheap porno echoed in the wood. The tawdry talk rose and fell with the beat of sex.
I was hard with envy. My hips danced as if entranced. I grabbed myself and moaned silent. Gagging on a mouthful of sticky spit, I swallowed rough and edged closer.
My inquisitive eyes examined his lover, bare of any disguise. Constricted timber and taut rope bound the thin subtle frame. Black iron loops rooted in concrete held sandy feet firm.
His lover discovered me. I ducked behind the tree then leaned back. I saw only horror in the huge, pleading brown eyes wet with fear.
And they saw me.
The vision left me conflicted.
The gray rectangle of a duct-taped mouth muffled incoherent pleas.
I turned away but looked back helpless, submissive like an obedient child. It disgusted and enthralled me.
Walter retrieved the shortened gun. He rested it along the spine of his lover’s back. I edged closer. Holding it tight against the skin, he bucked, further forcing his intention. Walter whispered words I thought I would never understand.
As he found his stride, his lover's muted accusations drove him beyond return. Walter buried himself within, screaming like an escaping madman. Sunlight spurted among the canopy of trees.
The afternoon exploded as they shot their loads together: Walter and the gun.
The sound shattered me. Though expected, I was never quite prepared. I blinked and went limp. I wanted to run away but my legs fell deaf. Everything but my eyes trembled. I could not turn away.
His lover’s body convulsed without thought. Walter held resolute, squeezing every drop of pleasure from the last of it. I loved his commitment.
Spent and relieved, his head fell back. A loud sigh whispered through the ringing in my ears. Walter smiled at me with a boyish grin. His inclusion warmed me. I breathed again.
He wrestled his clothes to his hip and stuffed the bulk within. All that remained was to clean up and head back to the city. Walking past, he handed me the gun and winked.
“Be certain to look after the litter before you go Fitz.”
Self proclaimed measure often sings the sourest of notes.
“God damn, I hate being wasted on useless crap,” Patty Jameson barked.
The Indiana State Police Detective stared at the man sitting beside her in the issued Crown Vic. Nothing. Her partner, Dave Lowman, sipped black coffee from a waxed-paper cup as if sneaking a treat. He winced and rubbed his lips like it burned then glanced to see if she had noticed.
“Don’t you?” she asked.
“What?”
“Fuck Dave, are you really that thick or are you busting my balls?”
“Um - neither.”
“So you would rather hunt for strays than work a high profile case?”
“Honestly Patty. I volunteered to help on this case.” Dave pulled the cup close. His lips pursed and he blew soft ripples into the dark surface.
“The fuck you say.”
“I did. I’m one of the few Spanish speaking people with the State Police.”
“This is Indiana; everyone who doesn’t speak English should be deported to Tia-fucking-wana.”
“Besides, I don’t like the big cases, too many eyes, too much pressure.”
“But it’s the quickest way to get ahead dumbass.”
“I’m willing to put in my time, pay my dues to get ahead. Let me ask you something. Why do you curse so much?”
“If you haven’t noticed, Detective, I’m a woman trying to make it in a man’s world and men curse. The more I curse, the less threatened you men seem to feel.”
“I’m a man. I don’t curse and you don’t need to. It doesn’t suit you.”
“Fuck you.”
“It doesn’t.” Dave tested the temperature of his coffee and licked at his upper lip.
“Come on padre let’s go pay your dues working our way to the bottom.”
The pair climbed from the Ford. Patty slammed her door shut and crossed the street in an apish gate. Trailing behind, Dave carted a file folder and his coffee.
“Hell we ain’t never going to find any of these damn kids,” Patty ranted. “They’re downtown Chicago or headed to New York or L.A. to blend in and find some low paying job far away from Mamasita’s overbearing teat.”
“Nice.”
Dave searched the faces of those near to see if anyone appeared surprised or offended. No one seemed to notice the slender, athletic blonde or her fowl mouth. Patty slid a soft pack of Marlboro reds and a Bic lighter from her white dress shirt pocket. She stood at the curb and lit up while Dave worked the sidewalk behind her.
Pulling a series of photos from a manila folder, he lined them along a set of stairs. Nine photos as if a page from a high school yearbook. He asked people walking by if they could look at the photos. Most walked past.
In an indignant tone heavy with his heritage, Dave announced, “All these boys - are missing.”
The crowd of people slowed to listen.
Dave raised his badge into the air, circling to show everyone. Making eye contact with various bystanders and pointing, he said, “Most of them were last seen in this area. They could be your son, your brother, your boyfriend.”
Patty glanced back and smirked, content with Dave having found his balls. She continued to smoke.
“Please take a moment and see if you recognize any of them.”
The people began looking at the photos. Passersby stopped to see what the others were examining.
“They’re all Mexicans. Do I look Mexican?” one man accused and skulked away.
Patty chuckled from the curb.
“Nice van,” she thought aloud.
Dave stepped close to see. “You mean too nice for this neighborhood.”
“Well, yeah. I guess.”
“You know Patty you have a lot of issues.”
“What kind of a van you figure that is?”
“Can’t make out a name but I'd guess a medical supply delivery van,” Dave said.
“Me either but why would a delivery driver be leaning on the van talking to a young Mexican boy?”
“Well, it could be the boy stopped him to ask about the work, the company or the driver asked him for directions.”
“I’ll tell you, there’s something about that picture that doesn’t add up for me.”
“You think a medical supply place is taking boys from here and turning them into delivery drivers?”
“Maybe - or maybe illegal drugs are being boxed to pass for medical supplies and delivered in broad daylight right under the beat cop’s nose."
"That's some," Dave started.
"I no a dis boy," a woman’s voice interrupted.
Dave turned away from Patty.
"Hey," Patty said, "The driver noticed me. He reacted the same way every guilty little fuck like him does. I can see it straight through those mirrored sunglasses. Let's have a look in that van. Dave? Dave? Where'd you go?"
"You say you know this boy?" Dave picked up the photo the woman pointed at and handed it to her.
"Jes, it is Antonio, Antonio Rivera. I pretty sure dat's his name."
&
nbsp; "How do you know him?"
"Dave, we need to get down there. I think he's about to leave," Patty interrupted.
"This woman recognizes one of the boys."
"Antonio, he chase my Maria but he too old for her, she only sisteen."
"Dave, they all live around here. It wouldn't surprise me if you found a hundred people who knew Paco."
"Not Paco, Antonio, Antonio Rivera," said the woman.
"You're absolutely right ma’am it is Antonio Rivera." Patty pulled a stack of business cards from her dark gray linen pants pocket and handed the woman one. "If you happen to see Antonio again, please have him contact me here."
Patty glared at Dave. "Now can we go?"
"He no work at the grosrie store any more. My Maria she ask and they say he stop comin to work, he quit. You say he missing? Oh my Maria will be so upset. You think it best I tell her?"
"Oh for fuck sake." Patty grabbed Dave's suit jacket and yanked. She pushed through the crowd dragging him behind like a disobedient child. She released him and threw her arms up spinning on the sidewalk.
"The van's gone," noted Dave.
Patty scowled at him. "Get in the car, maybe we can catch it."
"But I need the photos."
"If you're not in by the time I put it in drive, I'll come back for you - maybe."
Dave glanced at the group standing around the photos and back to Patty. She opened her door. He sprinted to the car. The Grand Vic squealed away.
Trouble is like rain: some people live high in the mountains seldom getting wet while others live in a floodplain.
Bo Boson, a part-time inventor part-time consultant part-time anything legal if you had the money, lived above the clouds. He credited it to a simple, honest existence.
The Wolf Lake Murders (A Bo Boson Adventure Book 1) Page 1
